Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Shit-Bear, the Cop, and the Crimson Cat How I Landed in a Place Worse Than Prison #44

Episode Date: July 25, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #darkcomedyhorror #surrealnightmare #twistedrealities #paranormalchaos #unhingedstorytime  "The Shit-Bear, the Cop, and the Crimson Cat: How I Landed in a Place Worse Than Prison"What starts as a bizarre run-in with a deranged cop, a foul-mouthed spectral bear, and a blood-soaked talking cat spirals into something much darker. This isn’t just a bad trip or some backwoods fever dream — it's a descent into a world stitched together by madness, guilt, and supernatural punishment. Told in a disturbingly funny yet unshakably eerie voice, this story peels back the absurdity to reveal something truly terrifying: a realm where logic dies, choices haunt, and there's no such thing as going back. And trust me — hell looks polite compared to this place.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,  darkhumorhorror, twistedfates, surrealparanormal, demonicentities, talkinganimalsgonewrong,  nightmaretrip, absurdhorror, uncannyvalleyfeels, criminalchaos, cursedcharacters,  supernaturalabsurdity, horrorwithhumor, backwoodsnightmare, bloodandmadness

It all kicked off like some bizarre flashback you can't decide if you're supposed to hate or weirdly crave. One of those loops we spin ourselves into, where crime doesn't really feel like crime unless there's a neon glow and a crooked smile to light it up. I was sprinting down a street sliced with LED strips that buzzed like a nest of electric bees. The concrete jungle loomed above me, towering buildings that pulsed with power, breathing life into the night like gods with chest hair. I didn't belong in that scene, not really. But I was there. Running. Not from guilt exactly, more like from the idea of being guilty.

That kind of thing sticks to you if you let it. I could hear the slap of boots behind me, cop boots, stiff and certain. He wasn't far, but he wasn't close either. Just kind of hovering in my story, like a shadow that hadn't fully made up its mind yet. See, this guy knew I was smart. Not street smart. Real smart. Like, open your mouth and dudes with PhDs get nervous smart.

But he was rotten, you know. The kind of cop that bathes in corruption and uses justice as mouthwash. His presence wasn't just a chase, it was a statement. A living contradiction. A pig in a man's suit who wanted to catch something more than a criminal. He wanted to rewrite truth to make himself look noble. Sick, really. I wasn't a violent guy.

People knew that. My name floated through conversations like a maybe. He's into some shit, they'd say. But he ain't no threat. And yet, this cop chased me like I killed his dog and mailed him the ashes. So either he knew something I didn't, or he was just real damn bored. Either way, I wasn't slowing down. If I ever stopped, that was it.

No second chances. No explanation. Just cuffs, a cell, and a headline that didn't get the facts right. Outside the chaos of my personal hurricane, life went on like it always does. Out there, lights didn't flicker. Rhodes had families instead of fugitives. People had stories they could tell without flinching. Me? Everything was about timing. Getting things right when it mattered. I never got a manual,

but I knew if I ever hesitated, the whole damn thing would come crashing down like a bad dream on repeat. At some point, the cop shouted something. It sounded kind, maybe even forgiving. But I was past the light now. Hidden. Cloaked in shadows that didn't care who was chasing who. His voice went the other way, and I didn't follow. That was the last time I heard him. Prison doesn't hit like a punch. It hits like gravity. Constant. Heavy. Unapologetic. The Mexican guy who had the top bunk leaned over and said, you're not so bad after all. His voice wasn't judgmental. Just real. Honest in a way that made you pay attention. He gestured for me to follow him, and something. something in me said, yeah, let's see where this goes. Those bunk room lights were colder than I

expected, like the place itself was allergic to warmth. There were too many bodies, too much silence stuffed with unsaid threats. I followed him through two rows of metal frame beds, out the door and into a space that smelled like sweat and boredom. A wreck room, if you wanted to be generous. He looked at me and said, you're going to need things to take care of yourself in here. Once you know what that is, I don't think you'll have too much of a hard time. My brain was running every survival checklist it could think of. Are the Mexicans my protection now? Is this some kind of setup? Every instinct was sharp. The last time I trusted someone blindly, I ended up on the news with a mugshot that looked like it was taken mid-blink. Still,

I followed. Sometimes that's the only play left. The hallway he's, led me through was dim, like it had forgotten what color was. It smelled like rust and broken promises. Then I saw him. The cop. Not in uniform anymore. Looked like he'd grown straight out of the dirt, with a beard that hadn't seen a razor in months and eyes like expired milk. He was behind a cage, watching me like I was the ghost of a decision he wished he hadn't made. I didn't stop. I didn't blink. I didn't care. Further down, things got weird. Real weird. Two Mexican guys were kneeling by a baby playpen, but instead of toys and diapers, it had water inside. And in that water? A freaking, crimson-brown,

cat-looking animal about the size of a lion cub, flopping around and playing with Cheerios like it was born in a breakfast commercial. The dudes were laughing, feeding it like it was the most natural thing in the world. I looked away. Couldn't process it. My mind was still loading. We stepped into this half-ass canteen-slaught trading post. Rustic didn't even cut it. It was downright feral. The air had texture, like you could rub it between your fingers and come away dirtier. Behind the counter stood two old white guys. One had a handlebar mustache so filthy it deserved its own cell block. Dirt covered his face, his shirt, hell, even the air around him gave up trying to be clean. He looked me dead in the eye and said, You're going to want to get real kind with the shit bear.

Now, I'm not exactly fluent in backwards riddles, so I just stood there blinking like someone smack my thoughts out of my head. Then, without missing a beat, the man handed me a Ziploc bag full of toothbrushes, soap, and other personal survival gear. Prison treasure, basically. He raised his hand. Like a wave or maybe a goodbye. But what caught me wasn't the gesture. It was the brown smear on the center of his palm. Not a smudge.

A print. A tiny paw, like a dog or a cat, had dipped its foot in shit and pressed it there on purpose. A signature. That's when I knew. This whole damn thing, it was all about the shit. bear. Let me rewind a second. The shit bear wasn't some creature you saw on animal planet. It wasn't listed in textbooks or whispered about in schoolyards. No, the shit bear was a rumor. A myth that had taken root in places people forgot about. Places like the corner of your mind where nightmares hide when

you're awake. The shit bear, they said, shows up when you're at your lowest. When your dignity's been strip searched and your name don't mean shit anymore. It feeds on shame and confusion. Some said it was a spirit. Others said it was a mutated animal, a result of something bad spilled into something worse. All I knew was that the moment I saw that paw print, my stomach flipped like it recognized a threat I couldn't name. The Mexican dude nudged me. Come on, he said, like we were late for some horrible appointment. We walked deeper into the facility, passed places that didn't feel like they belonged in a prison. At one point, we passed a mural, a damn mural, painted on the wall.

It was the shit bear, towering over a mountain of bones, eyes glowing like rotten cherries. Below it, some inmate had scrawled in paint, he who pets the shit bear learns to smell the truth. What the hell did that even mean? We ended up in a room that looked like a chapel if churches were built from regret and broken tiles. There was a circle of people sitting cross-legged, each one holding something weird. One had a comb. Another had a spoon. Someone else held a dirty sock like it was a relic.

They were all staring at a single bowl of water in the center. No one spoke. And then, from the shadows, it appeared. The shit bear. Small, almost cute. But the kind of cute that makes you uncomfortable. like a child with eyes too wise or a clown that doesn't blink. It waddled in, sniffed the air, and sat. No growls. No violence. Just presence. The group began to hum. Low and strange.

The bear blinked slowly, as if judging each person one by one. And I swear, the moment its eyes hit mine, I forgot what my voice sounded like. I forgot why I read. I forgot why I ran. Why I got caught. Why I gave a damn at all. That night, I didn't sleep. Not because I was scared, but because something inside me had changed. Like the shit bear reached in and flipped a switch I didn't know existed. You don't leave that place the same. Not ever. The cop. Maybe he found his own shit bear. Maybe he didn't. Doesn't matter. Some people spend their lives chasing the wrong criminals. Others just want to matter.

Me? I stopped running. Not because they caught me. But because the shit bear showed me the one thing no cell ever could, we all carry our own cages. Some made of guilt. Others made of lies. But the worst ones,

they're made of stories. Stories we tell ourselves so we can sleep. stories that let us think we're still free and once the shit bear shows up well you finally see just how full of shit those stories really are the end